Office of the Night
by llemun
Summary: A wedding dinner and a dance. Vimes and Vetinari have a...friendly...conversation. Of sorts. (Formatting problems now fixed. Or at least, I bloody hope so. shakes fist impotently at ff.net)


A.N: So. Me very first fanfic - or very first that I've actually finished, at any rate. Go me. Feedback much appreciated. *does feedback whore jig*  
  
// denotes italics.  
  
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, would I be writing FANfiction? Yeah. Thought so.  
  
Office of the Night  
  
The sunset snuck in through the windows of one of the Palace's myriad function rooms, tripped on the gilded beams, fell into the crystal chandeliers, and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. A large, but not unattractive lady in a blue dress shifted uncomfortably. Lady Sybil Vimes, n(e Ramkins, Duchess of Ankh, and richer than the rest of the gentry put together, was numb in some entirely inappropriate places. Not surprising, as she had been sitting for hours. First at the large and, Sybil privately thought, rather tasteless wedding of some well-to-do socialite, and now at this interminable dinner.  
  
She suppressed a smile as, to her left, she felt Sam surreptitiously wriggling in his seat as well. Beyond him, the Patrician seemed, as usual, perfectly at ease, and to her right, an older version of one of the Interchangeable Emmas nattered on, oblivious to all around her. Nevertheless, Sybil ignored her discomfort, and tried to look attentive and interested.  
  
Over years of having to deal with them, Sybil had learned that the way to hold a conversation with an Interchangeable Emma was to filter out all irrelevant bits of information, taking in only the key points of each sentence, and thereby leaving her mind free to more exalted tasks. It appeared that Interchangeable Emmas shared many traits with their aunts, and so Sybil, whilst apparently engrossed in conversation with Lady something-or-other, was also carefully following the exchange to her left.  
  
For a born man of the street having a conversation with the ruler of the most powerful city on the Disc, Sam was really doing quite well. After long hours of coaching from Sybil, he was managing to hold the perfect tone; just the formal side of casual - friendly, yet deferential. And Sybil thought she knew Havelock well enough to see that he was immensely enjoying putting Sam through his paces. He'd weave a course, twisting and turning, which Sam would have to negotiate. Every now and then, the Patrician would throw an unexpected obstacle Sam's way, but if Sam faltered, he usually had the good grace to guide him back on track. After all, he wasn't /completely/ heartless.  
  
Oh, there was some as might disagree, but really, Sybil thought, deep down the Patrician was quite a decent chap. And she knew her Sam felt the same. He'd never say it, but she felt Sam rather approved of the way Havelock ran the city. He understood how it worked, he sensed its moods and how to deal with them, he knew it better than Sam knew the cobbles in the streets. Havelock Vetinari /was/ the city.  
  
Back to her left, the conversation had died down somewhat. It seemed Havelock was giving Sam a breather. For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the /chink/ of cutlery, and the droning sound of Lady something-or-other making a determined attempt to conquer the world through sheer force of boredom. Suddenly, Sam heaved a sigh.  
  
'What is it, your grace?' the Patrician enquired. 'You seem somewhat. . . morose.'  
  
'Just thinking back to the time before I was 'your grace' sir, the time when I was plain old Samuel Vimes. Captain of a Watch that nobody cared about. Walking through the night with nothing but a bell and a pair of boots to my name. Not much of a life, but everything seemed so much simpler then.' Sam grinned wryly. 'But then again sir, that might just have been because I was drunk the whole time.'  
  
'No, not at all,' the Patrician waved away his self-deprecation. 'I know what you mean. There is something. . . pure about the night, isn't there? No politics, no juggling of Guilds and funds,' he caught Sam's eye, 'no having to keep your conversation in check. Just the night, and the counting of hours until morning comes.'  
  
Privately, Sybil gaped. What Havelock had just said was almost a precise replay of what Sam had said to her on more than one occasion. Once again, she debated with herself as to whether those sharp blue eyes could see people's thoughts written clear as day across their foreheads. Judging from the look on Sam's face, he was thinking the same thing.  
  
'I used to see you, you know.'  
  
'Sorry sir?' Sam - and Sybil - were jolted from their internal debates.  
  
'From my office, at night.' It was the Patrician who now seemed lost in some private recollection. 'I could see you and your Watch, going about your patrols, ringing your bells, and hoping against hope that all really /was/ well.'  
  
'And I'd see a light,' Sam mused, 'burning in a palace window, for hours and hours. Watching over the city until morning.'  
  
In the moment of silence that followed these words, the two men met each other's eyes. Something flashed between them - what it was, Sybil could not tell - and then the air between them broke, washing smiles onto their faces. Small smiles, true, but real smiles nonetheless. For a long time after that, neither of them spoke, and Sybil reluctantly let her attention drift back to Lady something-or-other, who, though not yet at world domination, had a small but prosperous empire of boredom.  
  
Gradually, the dinner dragged its feet from one course to the next, until finally, it was announced that it was time for dancing. As the guests stood up, a small army of waiters and caterers cleared away the tables in what seemed to Sybil to be an astonishingly short time. As the musicians struck up a tune, and prospecting for dancing partners began, Sam and Havelock drifted to the side of the immense room, in the general direction of the bar. They received few invitations to dance along the way - the Patrician made a show of leaning on his walking stick so as to avoid them, and most people knew by now to leave well enough alone where Sir Samuel Vimes was concerned. Sybil, much to her chagrin, was intercepted by Lord Selachii before she could follow and eavesdrop on the next stage of their conversation. Rather than be rude to an old 'friend' of the family, she was forced to graciously accept, and so was whirled away into the political and social arena that was the dancefloor.  
  
***  
  
After a thoroughly unenjoyable waltz, Sybil made her way to the bar under the pretence of needing a drink. Using her sizeable bustle and fan as siege engines of sorts, she managed to clear a path to a place where, whilst within earshot of Sam and the Patrician, she remained out of sight. Absentmindedly ordering a glass of wine, she tried to tune out any background noise. They were, apparently, discussing Havelock's training in the Assassin's Guild school. He professed to have trained extensively in unarmed combat, which Sam dismissed as peanuts* compared to close-quarter, down-and-dirty street fighting.  
  
'You think so, Sir Samuel?' the Patrician asked, one eyebrow raised.  
  
'Oh definitely. In a match against an Assassin-trained fighter - provided there were no weapons involved - a seasoned street fighter would seriously, um. . . '  
  
'Prod buttock?'  
  
'Exactly.' Sam smiled, and the Patrician grinned, actually /grinned/ in return.  
  
'Well,' he said, 'we shall have to test that theory sometime.'  
  
Sybil's jaw dropped. Had the Commander of the Watch and the ruler of the city just challenged each other to a. . . a /wrestling match/? Before she could gather her thoughts, she was invited to dance by yet another member of Ankh-Morpork's thriving circle of social barnacles, and once again that marvel of nature known as 'good breeding' insisted that she accept.  
  
*******************************************************************  
  
(*Well actually he'd said 'horseshit', but even mentally, Sybil paraphrased things like that)  
  
*******************************************************************  
  
The next time Sybil was able to extract herself from the dancefloor, Havelock and her husband appeared to be conversing on the matter of Old Stoneface's still-absent monument. For once, however, Sam didn't seem to be so keen on the subject.  
  
'Sir, you know I'm not too fond of the raising of statues.'  
  
'Yes, your grace?' the Patrician quirked an eyebrow.  
  
'Yeah.' Sam licked his lips. Was he nervous, Sybil wondered? He didn't /look/ nervous. In fact, he was wearing quite an evil little smile. 'There are. . . other things - issues, I mean - which I'd much prefer to see raised myself.'  
  
Sybil shrugged mentally. Sam had never struck her as one for socio- political debate, but then, she mused, you never knew what people got up to at work. Whilst pursuing this inner train of thought, Sybil turned slightly away from the devious grins that both men were now wearing, and, to her horror, saw a simpering Lord Venturii making a beeline for the bar. She hurriedly took a seat near the Patrician and Sam, and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Turning back, she saw that Havelock, having shifted slightly closer to Sam, was talking again. She had to strain her ears to hear them now, as he was practically whispering into Sam's ear.  
  
'With such an interest in raising. . . issues, Sir Samuel, has it ever occurred to you that you might one day find yourself in the Patrician's chambers? Sitting at the Patrician's desk? Sleeping in the Patrician's bed?'  
  
In the ringing silence that followed, Sybil saw several expressions chase across Sam's face. It dithered between shock and embarrassment, before finally settling on an icy indignation.  
  
'It. . . had crossed my mind,' he said coldly, 'but surely there'd be heaps of nobles and Guild leaders vying for such a position. I don't think I'd like to join the rat-race. As it were. Sir.'  
  
Havelock snorted softly, and shook his head.  
  
'There are hardly so many contenders as you seem to think. And you are the only one I can conceivably see winning the. . . rat-race. As it were.'  
  
'I'm not saying that it wouldn't be a hard offer to refuse, mind,' said Sam.  
  
'And, your grace, what would it take for you to accept?'  
  
'Loyalty,' Sam said immediately.  
  
'Loyalty?'  
  
'Yes. The loyalty of. . . of the city.'  
  
The Patrician smiled once more. Sybil privately wondered that, being so out of practice, the man's face didn't crack after all the smiling he'd done tonight.  
  
'My dear Vimes, if that is all you require, then I fail to see the problem. As much as the city can have any loyalty, it /is/ yours. I can hardly recall a time when it has not been.'  
  
Sam's face softened, and whilst he tried to think of something to say, Sybil rose quickly from her seat. Lord Venturii, having not found a partner at the bar the first time, was now circling for a second trawl, and he wouldn't miss her this time. Making her way over to where Havelock and her husband were leaning against the bar, she intruded upon the silence between the two.  
  
'Hallo, Sam. Enjoying the evening, Havelock?' the Patrician returned her greeting with a nod of the head. 'Sam dear, I am awfully tired.' Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Venturii getting ever closer. 'Don't you think it's perhaps time we went home?'  
  
Sam shifted in his seat.  
  
'Oh. Um. . . well. . . I was. . . I suppose, if you really want to. . . I. . . ' He turned to the Patrician, who stepped in smoothly.  
  
'Actually, my lady, would it be terribly inconvenient for you if I held on to his grace for the time being?' Sybil said nothing. 'Sir Samuel believes that he knows Ankh-Morpork well, but, if you would be so kind as to spare him, I would like to show him a view of the city that I do not think he will have seen before.'  
  
Venturii was only feet from where they stood now, and Sybil decided to cut and run whilst she still had the chance.  
  
'Well, as long as you'll be all right coming home, Sam?'  
  
Before Sam could reply, the Patrician cut in again.  
  
'Sir Samuel has also raised some very interesting issues, which I feel should be dealt with as soon as possible. Our debate, I fear, may take some time, so, if he wishes, his grace is more than welcome to quarter here in the Palace tonight.'  
  
Sybil was panicking now, and quickly acquiesced. Brushing past a disappointed Venturii with a quick (yet polite) 'goodnight', she went to collect her coat. Behind her, she heard snippets of conversation fading into the distance.  
  
'Shall we, Sir Samuel?'  
  
'Where to?'  
  
'Well, there is an excellent view of the city from my quarters, or alternatively, we could try the roof, if you'd like.'  
  
'The roof? Whoever knew you thought like that, sir?  
  
'Nobody. I find it useful to be able to surprise people, from time to time.'  
  
'Surprise indeed.'  
  
'Well, your grace, what is it to be?'  
  
' It's cold outside, sir, so tempting as the other option might be, I think I'll settle for your quarters. Much more suitable for debating, too. Let's leave the roof for now. For another night. Sir.' 


End file.
